Hilton vs. Ritchie

It looks like the Fates have further conspired against us to torture us yet again by bringing back together rich bitches Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie for another abominable season of the evil ‘Simple Life’ – despite the fact that they are apparently not speaking to each other.

Oh goodie! Stab me now.

Fox announced that the network has picked up the options on the contracts for both of the feuding debutante’s in anticipation of the fourth season of the freakishly popular reality show. Aside from the public rift between the ex-friends and co-stars for undisclosed reasons, Fox sees other fodder for ongoing sparks.

Now, maybe if I can let down my guard against this particular Reality ‘Snobfest’ long enough to acknowledge their mutual hatred for one another and the various potentially violent possibilities surrounding this new ‘Simple Life 4’ season, I may just be pleasantly suprised to be pleased with the end results. If the ‘Los Wonder Ho’s’ really have had a serious falling out, then for the sake of loathing viewers such as myself, I’d say the shows producers may actually be onto something here by instead pitting them against one another in their new episodes.

THAT might be something I’d tune in for!

Fuck having the blond rich bitch bimbo’s stumblefuck their useless asses through various mundane adventures in the common everyday workforce such as fisting cows, grilling Sonic Burgers, or what-have-you; lets see them really scrap it out tooth and manicured nail!

The world already knows how terminally stupid and inept these two girls are. In fact, to say they’re a few sandwiches short of a picnic is an insult to starving Africans. It’s already a well established fact at this point that neither of these heiresses rhubarbs would normally be qualified to sweep up hair at the barber’s since they’re about as fucking smart as a bag of hammers.

I am in total favor of any spicing up of this otherwise train wreck of a television series – and if that spicing up entails one of their heads on a platter, then so much the better! I say the bigwigs at Fox Studios should even go one further and just pit the two girls against one another in a live battle-to-the-death inside a 10” steel cage. Just let the ex-friends go at one another like starving jackals in a pit fighting over a leftover soup bone. For even higher ratings, dress both of the feuding frolines in skimpy Christian Dior cocktail dresses and invite them to compete in a no-holds barred, knock down, drag out cat fight to the finish like two Roman gladiators battling for their freedom.

THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!

Nothing says ‘Simple Life’ anyways like two spoiled hussies swinging at one another and yanking out fistfuls of hair in the front yard of a little pink farmhouse in rural small town suburbia. It’s bloody perfect!

Now, being somewhat of a betting man, I’d say that the smart money would be on Nicole Ritchie to lay down the more vicious of the ass-whoopings on the lesser intimidating and more bleached Paris Hilton. I bet Ms. Ritchie will scratch her billionaire eyes out and feed Paris’ face to her chiahuahua Tinkerbell with a side dish of fresh watercress salad before she could even say "that’s hot!" She’d proceed to slit open her belly with a rusty Epilady and strangles Paris with her own entrails inside five minutes.

It would inevitably go down in broadcasting history as the most spectacular shortest-lived season premiere for any new televised series since ‘After Mash’.

I would happily wait eons through the most obnoxious and mind-numbing toilet paper and dog food commercials in order to witness that single moment.

I Dig A Pony

Dear readers, once in a while a subject comes around that is simply so juicy that one cannot help but be morbidly fascinated. Okay, “juicy” may not be exactly the best way to describe this particular topic du jour, but whose interest isn’t instantly piqued when the conversation comes around to the taboo topic of bestiality? Makes you want to read more already doesn’t it *?

I know what you’re saying to yourself right now: “OMG - Is he really going to talk about fucking animals”? Hey - what can I say? My tact knows no boundaries. When a situation so forbidden as this comes along you just have to embrace it like Catherine the Great embraced equestrian riding.

The topic of bestiality always sparks off discernibly disapproving attitudes of repulsion, disgust, and just lately, heated political debate. How could it not? Certainly slipping the ‘ol tube steak into Porky out in the barn late at night isn’t exactly the quick ticket into heaven, I agree, but on the other hand “zoophilia” is practically rampant and commonplace throughout history. As long as there's been inviting orifices to stick our penises into, we've been humping them! There are more jokes and urban rumors circulating about dudes (and chicks for that matter) banging horses, pigs, sheep, cows, and every other poor beast with an unoccupied inviting furry orifice that one couldn't possibly keep on top of it all (or underneath it, or behind it for that matter). I myself was unfortunately victim once to witnessing a grown man screw his knob into a chicken when I unwittingly entered into the Common Room at my university residence late at night during one of the pre-organized floor Porn Night. I guess I missed the circulated flyer **.

It served as one of the most traumatic events of my life. My eyes burned inside their sockets with the graphic abomination I was witnessing on the television screen before me. In fact, to this day, I can’t even watch my cat lick himself now without going all Clockwork Orange and being reduced to a quivering mass of tears on the floor. It was just that fucking aweful and traumatic and it further stunted my sexual development for at least another year or so until I was able to move off campus into a clearly marked “No Animal Fucking Zone”.

I couldn’t understand why anybody would want to bang livestock; much less watch grainy videos of other people doing it. Surely, when God passed down to us the coveted tenth Holy Commandment “You shall not covet your neighbor's house; you shall not covet your neighbor's wife, nor his male servant, nor his female servant, nor his ox, nor his donkey, nor anything that is your neighbor's”, he also meant the no making of sweet love to his barn animals as well! But for some sick reason, there will always remain an active interest in the perverted underbelly of society to boink our poor four-legged friends. Any quick Google search on the Internet will prove that ***!

So how did I get on this topic in the first place you ask? Well, recently I discovered a news story from Washington State that brought the whole repressed topic to mind again once again. Last week, a man died of internal injuries from having sex with a stallion at a ranch used by a bestiality ring. The man suffered fatal trauma while being sodomized by a stallion at a stud farm that catered to men who wanted to have sex with animals.

How mortifying is that? Wouldn’t that be a tad bit embarrassing at the Gates of St. Peter while filling out registration forms to get into heaven? REASON FOR DEATH: “Fucked to death by a horse”. You’d be the laughing stock in paradise for all eternity; that is if you’re not already being spit-roasted in Hell over a blazing inferno of fire and brimstone. Good Lord – it’s finally happened! The degenerate freaks in California have finally begun to spill over into the other neighboring states.

The event at the ranch was exposed after a man body was dropped off at a hospital southeast of Seattle on July 2nd after his encounter with the horse. “Basically, his colon was ruptured, along with his lower organs, and he bled out” stated Enumclaw Police Commander Eric Sortland.

Furthermore, in connection with the case, a cache of hundreds of hours of videotaped hot man-on-beast sex sessions was found hidden in a field ****. Apparently, this ranch of perverts loved to document their sexual blasphemy and there was no shortage of examples: ponies, horses, goats, sheep, and dogs. Images of the flock of fantasy farm offerings on the bestial dude ranch were relayed over the Internet and records indicate that men had come from throughout the United States, according to police.

Now there’s a nice cultural, romantic singles getaway, huh? Fuck the white beaches at Boracay or the rainforest ruins of the Yucatan, Daddy wants to get his freak on with frisky animals at some studio ranch in Washington! PAAAAAAAAAR-TAY!

Even more outrageous in this case, is that because sex with animals is not barred by law in Washington State, no arrests have been made whatsoever although the investigation continues. However, the case is now being reviewed by state legislators backing a bill that would make it illegal to have sex with animals.

Pardon - are you fucking kidding me? Not since Arnold Schwartzenegger supported that anti-necrophilia bill in California itself, has there been a more overdue revamping of the current legal statutes surrounding the world of acceptable sexual conduct. Surely, we have learned by now that common sense does not always prevail among the perverted (see California for further explaination).

But this is not just an isolated situation, only the most recent in a number of ongoing cases from beyond the pale the world over. I remember a few years ago, Dutch political parties were also embroiled in creating more definite legislature prohibiting sex with animals after an Amsterdam man was released from the courts scot-free after being caught fucking a pony. There is no article in Dutch law that either prohibits bestiality or indicates liable punishment for offenders. In this case, it was deemed that because “there were no wounds or traces of violence” there was no cause to prosecute the man under the existing penal codes.

What kind of defense is that? Didn’t anybody ever ask the poor pony how he felt about being violated by this sick bastard? The pony might be going to special support groups for barnyard victims of sexual abuse for the rest of his life, but this still isn’t considered a true “wound” or “trace of violence”? Talk about riding around on your high horse! Can you imagine the ‘Circle of Trust’ at that support group meeting…a pig, a goat, a chicken, a pony, and a horse all holding hooves and crying and hugging each other tearfully?

“And then he pulled down his pants and stood up on a milking stool behind me – I felt so helpless…so scared.”

How can we turn such a blind eye to our fellow living creatures with whom we share this planet? It’s unlikely that the perpetrator is ever going to use the argument that the sex was consensual isn’t it?

“Honest, your Honor, the pony was begging for it!”

I’m not terribly surprised that this kind of activity was exposed in Amsterdam, a nation of radical free-loving liberal hippy-types and junkies, anymore than I would be more surprised at reported cases of Vampirism in Transylvania. In a hypersexualized society such as Amsterdam, a mere stroll down the ‘Red Light District’ of town on any day will bear witness to any number of bizarre sexcapades that would make fucking a pony seem like wacking off with sock puppets!

“Sex with a pony, that’s so passé man! Sex with power tools is where’s it’s really at now. Don’t be all softcore, dude! Now pass the ‘Space Cake’.”

But here in NORTH AMERICA?! Surely we're more evolved?

The whole bestiality thing seems so black and white to me. If some dumbass wants to get totally fucked stupid by a horse cock in front of his buddies until his asshole is gaping wide enough open that you could hear the ocean in it – let him. Just as long as the horse isn’t complaining, what do I fucking care? But if we’re going to continue allowing men to run around banging livestock with reckless abandon without consequence, then I think we should give the animals the same rights to run out and us fuck human beings with the same complete disregard for our own emotional, physical, and psychological concerns. Otherwise, it’s just hypocritical.

Better yet - lets just have complete and total barnyard chaos! Animals will be cruising the streets and mounting people at bus stops and cashier checkouts in the wild attempts to satify their natural instincts and jungle fevers.

“Hey look! Charlie is getting balled by a horse again! Ouch- that’s gotta suck!”

* For those of you who actually quickly scanned to this footnote before continuing: I suggest reading no further. Simply turn off your computer and go outside to play on the swings or something. For those of you who were so taken with the immediate thought of fucking animals that you simply had to read on further and instead waited to read this footnote afterwards: go immediately to your local church or holy sanctuary, fall down on your knees, and beg your god, in whatever form that may transpire, to spare you your soul from roasting for all eternity come Judgment Day.

** Not to mention the whole point of wishing to to spend hours watching bestiality porn in a room full of other guys. You'd think that ,if anything, that would be something you would prefer to do on your own time.

*** Not that I would ever recommend you do this, of course, unless maybe this really does appeal to you and you also have a virus software program installed in your computer that could block out time itself.

**** A field? You'd think they'd find a more substantial place to hide their animal porn.

"Remove Cellophane Wrapper Before Annihilating"

Here’s some interesting news: Volunteers taking part in tests of the Pentagon’s “less lethal” microwave weapon were banned from wearing glasses or contact lenses due to safety fears.

Pardon? We’re zapping people with microwave beams and our biggest concern is their corrective eyewear? How about WHY are we nuking them in the first place? At the very least, how are they fitting the people in those microwaves?

These precautions raise concerns about how safe the new ‘Active Denial System’ (ADS) weapon would be if used in real crowd-control situations. ‘Active Denial System’ – what the fuck is that exactly? It sounds like some radical weight loss therapy or something, not some space age death ray that nukes people like frozen dinners with a 95-gigahertz microwave beam!

This ADS fires this microwave beam, which is supposed to heat the skin and cause pain but no physical damage. “No physical damage”? I find that pretty hard to believe considering we’re literally frying peoples bodies like hot dog wieners. That’s sounds pretty fucking damaging to me!

These tests were carried out at Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque, NM. You know, I think I have an instant aversion to anything that needs to be secretly tested in a desert base. Two experiments tested pain tolerance levels while in a third, a “limited military utility assessment” (again – WTF does that mean?), volunteers played the part of rioters or intruders and the ADS was used to drive them away. Who in their right mind would ever “volunteer” themselves to be zapped by super microwave beams until their bodies are writhing like sizzling bacon? By “volunteers”, I bet they mean “inmates serving time for child molestation”.

The experimenters banned glasses and contact lenses to prevent possible eye damage to the subjects, and in the second and third tests removed any metallic objects such as coins, keys, or any random silverware that volunteers may have been holding at the time to stop burning hot spots being created on the skin. The ADS weapon’s beam causes pain within 2 to 3 seconds and it becomes intolerable after less than 5 seconds. Peoples reflex responses to the pain is expected to force them to move out of the beam before they’re turned in crispy tater tots; unless of course it’s a riot consisting of Floridian senior citizens - in which case they would instead be expected to be drawn directly into the microwaves and begin setting up retirement centers.

Neil Davison, however, coordinator of the non-lethal weapons research project at the University of Bradford in the U.K., says controlling the amount of radiation received may not be that simple. For example, how do you ensure that the dose doesn’t cross the threshold, or what happens if someone in a crowd is unable, for whatever reason, to move away from the beam? Does the weapon cut out to prevent overexposure or does it continue to nuke them until their organs explode? All very valid concerns – however, I suspect that Mr. Davison is only experiencing sour grapes due to the fact that his own British branch of non-lethal weapons research team has so far, only managed to devise an ‘Active Denial System’ that scalds rioters with hot milky tea instead.

During the experiments, people playing rioters put up their hands when hit and were given a 15 second cooling down period before being targeted again. One person suffered a burn in a previous test when the beam was accidentally used on a “HIGH” setting instead of “DEFROST”.

The thing I don’t get is why the fuck do we need “non-lethal weapons” anyways? If we have to use a weapon against violent aggressors, I want the security of knowing they’re fucking dead as a kipper on a cracker and no longer a risk to my personal safety. Furthermore, I’m not going to complain if they so happened to be blinded by their glasses or contact lenses should the ADS be utilized. Blinding is perfect preventive solution to stop them from attacking at me - I like that advantage! You can't shoot what you can't see. I would definitely prefer dead or incapacitated to uncomfortable and irritated. Besides, what scrupleless international terrorist cells are out there developing and implementing Weapons of Mass Irritation?

I want a lethal weapon that will strike my enemy down not just “actively denying” them and pissing them off more – this is war after all! I want them melted down into the brick causeway leading to my castle.

In fact, I want one for Christmas! Just think how effective this ADS device would be to navigate through a thick crowded street or to get oneself to the front of a busy checkout lineup? You repel smelly homeless people from sitting beside you on the bus, or deflect your ex-girlfriend from approaching you at the bar. The possibilities are endless!

The US marines and police are both working on portable versions and the US air force is building a system for controlling riots from the air. Riots from the air – is that ever likely to happen? How often are you ever going to find yourself seiged by a group of disgruntled skydivers? Now, just in case, you can zap them like microwaveable popcorn before they hit the ground.

Getting Pissy Over Late Night Infomercials

After a late night session of staring at the glowing television in the corner over a bowl of laced chilled grapes with the room steadily collapsing in on top of me, I was sickly amused to see a commercial for “Urine Gone!” – the latest marvel of enzyme enhancing cleaning products that attack whatever the fuck it is that those little enzyme bastards don’t approve of in your home’s carpets and fabrics.

Over the course of its lengthy three-minute mini-infomercial, this “Urine Gone!” product perplexed me as much it did disturb me. Seeing as how it was 4:20AM in the morning, my eyes were wired open, I am a pet owner, and I hate the smell of urine as much as the next person, I felt this strange stubborn obligation to feign interest*.

For only $19.99 this miracle product will attack and remove all urine and other organic matter (such as feces, blood, saliva and more) and essentially eat up their remaining stains and odors. “Enough to clean your whole house” the commercial boasted. It then went on to play an entire montage of practical uses for this strong anti-urine spray: seat cushions, sofas, mattresses, bed sheets, pillows, car seats, counter tops, table tops, carpets, rugs, linen cupboards, clothing drawers; you fucking name it, this will remove the piss from it.

My question? Who has this much piss (not to mention feces, blood, saliva, and more) in their homes to have such an urgent need for a huge bottle of powerful urine remover? Where do these people live – Seigfreid & Roy’s place?

I’ve been a pet owner my entire life. At any given time, I’ve had dogs, cats, rabbits, chinchillas, guinea pigs, gerbils, lizards, birds, and everything else that squeaks, squeals, squawks, grunts, barks, meows, whistles, or licks itself while you eat your dinner. And somehow, none of them have ever managed to make the fatal mistake of having an accident more than ONCE in my home! Its called “training” people! I’ve loved all my pets and taken excellent care of all of them, but if any of them were ever to become so brazen to squirt their unwelcome business anywhere in my home, they would automatically become tomorrow’s dinner. It was a fine, but clearly defined threshold to abide by in my home.

I simply can’t fathom why anyone would allow so much piss in his or her homes? That’s ludicrous! Judging by the volume of urine in this commercial, your average home is being used as a litter box by herds of buffalo. Doesn’t anybody take their pets out for a walk anymore? Apparently, there is so much potent piss stink emanating in peoples homes on a daily basis that with every purchase, the good people at “Urine Gone!” were also going to include a complimentary ‘Black Light Stain Detector’ free of charge to further assist you ferret out all the secret recesses of pooling urine in your home. I can see where that might be useful if you’re, say, Michael Jackson, but pet owners should not require such a “scientific” device to help keep their homes clean. They need a fucking leash!

“Urine Gone!” is also claims to guarantee that its %90 more effective than the other leading brands of urine removers. That’s pretty impressive, sure, but I would recommend that if your pet is such a sanitary hazard around the house that you instead utilize a method that is guaranteed to be %100 more effective than any of the urine removers in existence, and just shoot ‘Leaky Lassie’ between the eyes with an old Colt 45 in an Old Yeller-style execution.

Honestly, there is no cure for human stupidity. Although hopefully in the future there may be a powerful spray available that removes it from lazy pet owners.

* Well that, and the only other thing on TV of any remote interest was a Discovery Channel documentary on the deadliest venoms on the planet. And believe me, that’s not something you want be watching at 4:20AM over laced grapes; watching a King Cobra strike and consume an entire Rat Snake in slow motion will have your testicles retracting back up into your throat and rate a perfect 10.1 on the overall ‘Squeamish Scale'.

The Wedding Basher

For as long as I can remember, I have been waiting patiently for my beautiful future bride-to-be to come traipsing along, club me over the head with a nine pound hammer and drag me off by the testicles to serve as her wanton sex toy for the rest of my days. In the meantime, I seem to be forever doomed to participate in and repeat the torturous ceremonial nuptials for every other googily-eyed couple in love these days.

It’s not that I’m bitter over the fact that they have found their soul mate to spend the rest of eternity with, or that they seem to require flaunting that fact by rubbing my lonely single nose in their love muffins - it’s just that I’m a bitter old booger who hates being forced to put on a shirt and tie in order to do so. Besides, it’s getting harder and harder with age to be able to successfully accessorize my dress shirts to match the two huge ever-expanding blue balls hanging between my legs.

In all honesty, I just attended once of these ritual “tying of the knot” ceremonies family recently this past weekend, and while it still harbored all the mushy tell tale signs of a storybook fantasy wedding nightmare come true; it was actually bearable for the rest of us to be a part of in the process! Imagine that. However, while steeped in dry roast beef and a steady stream of double whiskeys on the rocks from the complimentary open bar, it did make me contemplate my position in this whole lonely divine comedy of life.

When exactly did the traditional wedding festivities regarding this legalized domestic servitude transgress to such ridiculous pump and cummerbund routines that would make slow Chinese water torture seem like a convenient quick death by comparison? By Zeus, it seemed like only yesterday brides were required to cut off all her hair and offer it as a sacrifice to Artemis before being wisked away in a horse drawn cart while being showered with nuts and dried fruit!

Honestly, what’s the big whoop?

Wedding goers are usually forced to run a gauntlet of gushiness in the forms of the traditional wedding service and reception - the commonly accepted, standard two-part program for the big day. These two portions of the wedding ceremony, while both being integral and important in their own right (not to mention boring enough to make you bore holes into your forehead with a Black & Decker cordless drill) are two very different playing fields altogether.

The first part of the wedding itinerary, the all haloed “Service” segment is the more symbolic, detailed and rehearsed of the two agendas and therefore is as about as enjoyable for the wedding attendants as being forced to watch cattle being slaughtered by Masai bushmen with machetes. This is the part of the wedding ceremony where the bride and groom are ceremonially marketed off to each other by each by their respective families, who are about as secretly excited as Hugh Hephner at the premier screening of ‘Bunnies with Pipes’ at having been able to cull another off the herd and further lighten the weekly grocery bill. It is here that the preverbal ball and chain is attached to their ankles and the premarital chastity belts are unlocked and dropped to the ground with a deep resounding CLANG that would drown out distant church bells.

After attending a traditional Catholic wedding this weekend, I have taken it upon myself to rename this portion of the ceremony as the “Prayers That Never End”, where wedding service attendant, or perhaps just the lucky winners of a random seat lottery, are brought to the alter, before God and in front of the entire congregation and wedding party, to sweat their way through dated prophetic verses with words so big that they would wrinkle the pages of Webster’s dictionary.

The actual bridal party, in the strict classical style of a Catholic private school dance, are separated on either side of the church alter and are usually straining under the heavy weight of their bouquets and corsages as the minister prattles on endlessly about holy matrimony and the importance of love and commitment.

Yeah, yeah, I know - I’ve seen ‘Titanic’.

Of course, there are much more fascinating things to occupy your mind’s eye throughout the service if you can bring yourself around from daydreaming about black hooded wraiths and bitchy hobbits during the “Blessing of Rings”. For example, what EXACTLY is a “Recessional Hornpipe” anyways? I’m not even remotely aware of what a “Recessional Hornpipe” is, or if I am even man enough to manage one, but I am assuming that anything with the word ‘horn’ in it can’t be all that uninviting. There are those pleasurably surreal moments when you could swear you heard the opening composition for ‘Music for Airports’ while the wedding pianist is tuning up in the cloisters.

To make things a bit more exciting and to alleviate all the pent up frustration of not having been able to quietly finagle a soggy Ritz Bit from the pudgy little girl standing in the pew ahead of you without alarming her dozing mother, wedding attendants will sometimes try and predict the opening organ preludes to kickoff the show. “Will they open with ‘Amazing Grace’ or tease into the ‘Interlude Reprise’ before finishing with a crispy ‘Canon in D Major?” Or perhaps you prefer to simply turn casually backwards in your seat and stare pie-eyed into the multiple of camera flashes that continuously snap and burn with the same intensity as the July sun blazoning away outside the church as you trip away in the kaleidoscope of flashing lights as hypnotized as a hyperactive child sitting in front of ‘Power Puff Girls’ after his dinner of Ritalin and peas. However normally, it is usually by this time that I have silently dozed off in the back rows as I bitterly contemplate asking another attendant in the congregation to show them some of this “love” by putting a hollow-point bullet between their ears and ending this lengthy service suffering. At the very least, to store up on valuable stores of energy and mentally preparing yourself for the second, lengthier and more grueling part of the big day - the Reception!

The best thing about weddings is that after the initial service marathon of nuptials, you are finally permitted to gather together in small rooms in order to toast the happy couple over stiff cocktails and quiche tarts. It is here that we can finally begin enjoying the real reason we willingly agree to attend these things – the free booze. Once those reception doors are open, everyone converges on the bar and begins to consume the alcohol in large doses while the bridal party are playing victim to the ever commanding wedding photographer who organizes the planned bridal group shots with waves of his hand like Hitler addressing the Third Reich. This excess of cocktails and aperitifs will both guarantee that you will be comatose enough to endure the all the various speeches, toasts and tributes to the happy couple before and after dinner; and least of all, to be able to build up enough Dutch Courage in order to be able to stagger over and invite the bridesmaid of your choice to do you the pleasure of allowing you to clumsily drool and trounce all over her already bruised and swelling toes on the dance floor.

Lets face it, the bridesmaids are the focus and magnet for every desperate horny and lonely male, such as myself, within a five mile square radius. C’mon, all us guys harbor long-standing fantasies of banging a drunken bridesmaid in the bathroom stall – it’s not just me! I’m confident, that drunken bridesmaid sex is right up their with the Princess Leia in a slave girl outfit fantasy! Every red-blooded man that can manage to affix his tie to his head and strip off his shirt to sing Karaoke along to ‘I’m Too Sexy’ while strutting and posing on the dance floor like a commercial advert for Showcase’s ‘Fridays Without Borders’ has had this fantasy at least once in their lives.

Once the dinner and speeches have finished for the evening, the bride and groom are forced to move together around the dance floor in a dizzying circle for the traditional wedding ‘Dance of the Damned’ with every friend, guest, and member of the kitchen catering staff still in attendance.

Now the REAL party begins!

There’s no more forced smiles for the cameras; no more politely clapping through inebriated accounts of the grooms alcoholic prowess by the best man; no more cutting grandma’s ham during dinner; just you and the open bar – “mano et merlot”. This is when all those still upright and somewhat semi-functioning wedding goers will begin pouring it on with the inevitable post-wedding Schmoozefest where everybody runs the gauntlet of gooiness by handing out enough hugs, kisses and fond farewells to make Gwenyth Paltrow’s Oscars acceptance speech seem rehearsed in comparison. It would seem that nobody is allowed to so much as move a muscle without enduring the barrage of hugs and emotional outpourings from those around them. I am even guilty of bear hugging the mother-of-the-bride and shedding a few tears at her departure, even though she was only getting up to make her way to the bathroom (probably to get away from the drunken jackass sitting beside her).

All in all, weddings are an inevitable part of life as we all move through this plane of existence looking for those significant others with which we will spend the rest of our days. It is only fair that after consuming the copious amounts of free alcohol and eating the approximate weight of an obese hippopotamus at the many wedding buffets that eventually, you will have to host one of these elaborate shindigs for your own friends and family and allow them to share in all that stressful wedding bliss that goes along with it in order to celebrate your new found love and commitment. Likewise, it is only fair that you take your turn in allowing your own friends and family the same opportunity to snore through the nuptials, drink far too much with dinner, grope the bridesmaids, barf in the dessert trolley, and confess about that time on Spring Vacation when the groom filmed a Bestiality video with underage crack whores.

The Legend of Lance Armstrong's Balls

(I understand that this post must be sealing my fate and ensuring my swift transport straight to Hell. But hey, you go to Heaven for the weather; you go to Hell for the company. This post is also dedicated to Adrian, for whom I will be most impressed with if he still manages to make it to work today with his soul intact after reading this blastphemy with his morning "cough-ee".)

You know who I’m beginning to develop a serious hate-on for – Lance-fucking-Armstrong, that’s who! It’s all “Lance this…” and “Lance that…” – his name is literally on everybody’s lips these days...like iced decaf mocachinos.

Lance Armstrong has almost successfully reached an immortal status by today’s cultural standards. It’s getting harder to separate the man from the myth at this point. I mean, what hasn’t this guy got going for himself? He’s currently competing for his 7th straight Tour de France victory; has conquered testicular cancer after it spread to his brain and lungs in 1996; he started a popular fashion trend nationwide with his fucking yellow silicon rubber bracelet thingees; he bikes around with Robin Williams in Central Park; and he’s banging, arguably, the hottest woman in Rock n’ Roll - Sheryl Crow.

This guy has seemingly got it fucking all! Here’s a guy that could seduce the Statue of Liberty. He’s like Superman without that limp dick Clark Kent alias. You'd think I'd be eager to jump on the whole Lance Armstrong band wagon dealie, wouldn't you? But you, dear readers, know me better than that - there is an indescribable urge to have this numbnut chain-whipped by a gang of Cambodian midgets gnashing in the back of my head.

I'm just sick and tired of hearing about the exploits of this Lance Armstrong guy. I'm developing the same kind of homocidal urges that I also experience with the Darkness, men who knock fists, and kittens rolling in toilet paper.

For those of you who do not follow the hype, let me bring you up to speed. There is further speculation that Lance Armstrong single-handedly built the pyramids at Giza, the temples at Chichen Itza, and the complex of Angkor Wat in six days using only an ice pick and sandpaper. In fact, those gigantic carved circles in the remote coastline mountains of Peru aren’t really ancient flying saucer landing pads, but actually the huge circular impressions of Lance Armstrong’s balls when he sat down briefly to rest on the seventh day. Lance Armstrong can walk on water, not because he is Jesus; but because the normal force as described by Newton in his modern law of physics does not apply to him – the guy is simply that fucking amazing! Shit, I bet you could bottle his piss and make millions marketing it as a cure for herpes.

It just never ends.

But lets stick to what we know to be true. By all rights, nobody should even know who Lance Armstrong is! Who EVER watches international cycling besides that hairy gimp Robin Williams? Let’s face it, it’s a boring fucking spectator sport. You spend all day by the side of the road in the middle of remote French countryside waiting for the moment a gaggle of pedalling riders in tight shorts race by at 80 mph only to disappear again over the horizon a few moments later. I'd rather watch Jessica Tandy trim her pubic hair. How can you get excited over, what, 30 seconds of action just to cheer “Pedal, le bitches, pedal!”

Americans are only interested in cycling just so long Lance Armstrong is still kicking some boney European ass and taking names. After he retires from the sport, the Tour de France will inevitably just lapse once again to the same obscurity level of popularity as the ‘World Lesbian Bocce Championships’.

But regardless, it’s the fact that Lance Armstrong accomplished all these incredible feats in cycling after he was diagnosed with testicular cancer. Holy shit, cancer of the balls? I will admit that it takes a special breed of human being to get over that kind of medical trauma to bounce back and win six straight Tour de France "maillot jaune" * - but this would have most of us guys trying to work our big toes into the trigger of a 12-gauge shotgun while leveling the barrel into our jaw plates; but not Lance, he just goes on to become a sporting phenomenon and a rumor starts that he has a fully functional light saber as a penis or something. Sure this is all worthy of my respect, but I’m getting sick and tired of hearing about Lance Armstrong’s Charlie Brown’s! Call me old fashioned, but that’s more information than I really need to know about about cycling!

In doing this, Lance Armstrong unwittingly started a coast-to-coast fashion trend by wearing a yellow silicon rubber bracelet with 'Live Strong' emblazoned on it to show his support for cancer research. Now every motherfucker on the planet is wearing one of these blasted things! The whole thing reminds me of high school when rebelious teenagers would color code their Doc Martin shoelaces as a means of identifying themselves. Shit, I were to ever wear yellow shoelaces while walking down the halls of Merritton High School back in '93 I would have run the risk of having my ass kicked for being a 'Militant Homosexual White Supremist', or something just as insignificant and stupid.

In fact, this whole rubber awareness bracelet trend has just exploded out lately with the force equitable to that of the first ‘Big Bang’ that gave birth to this crazy solar system. Now, besides the initial yellow 'Live Strong' ones, we also have to contend with a whole spectrum of other colored wristbands as well. Everything from anti-smoking, cystic fibrosis, AIDS, racism, tsunami relief, poverty, supporting overseas troops, Autism **, even the fucking Discovery Channel has one available for it’s loyal couch potato academics. It’s like every charitable organization in the whole wide world has a new color-coded bracelet to brand their supporters with. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise me if there are little denim blue ones with ‘Just Say No to Pants’ for those whom may be avid about not wearing pants. No charity or cause is too stupid or too insignificant it seems - somehow, the little silicon rubber bracelet legitimacizes the charity as a valid concern among the socially conscious members of society.

Big-fucking-whoop!

Which brings us full circle to his current girlfriend Sheryl Crow. Apparently, Sheryl found what makes her happy when she hooked up with ‘ol Lance baby. Everyday may be a winding road, but I bet her days and nights are filled with intense multiple orgasm straightaway's thanks to Lance’s miraculously healed super cajones.

Hell, I'd fuck the guy.

Yep, Lance Armstrong has it all – and I hate him for it. The only persona still alive in this galaxy that may even be even contend with Lance Armstrong for ultimate superiority in this lifetime would be Jack Lalanne. Now THAT would be a battle of epic proportions that would make Gilgamesh’s battle with the Bull of Heaven seem like a preschool hissy fit.

Ultimately, the safe bet is still on Lance Armstrong though. He'll carve his name into Lalanne's belly with a bicycle spoke and defeat him by judgement of Thunderdome!

* That means "yellow jersey", you schmuck.

** AUTISM is a fucking charity - since when? Those squirrely little fuckers can probably count an entire box of spilled toothpicks in a split second; that's not a disability!

Not Another Hurricane Report?

Does anybody really give two shits about Hurricane Dennis?

I know I, for one, after last summers marathon of hurricane crisis broadcasts that I’m still %100 completely freakin’ hurricaned out. I don't get excited anymore unless there is at least a killer tidal wave, an earthquake rating eight or more on the Richter Scale, or a Class Five tornado; everything else is just an overcast day.

I don’t think anybody besides maybe CNN’s Anderson Cooper really cares anymore. For Anderson however, its just like Christmas morning as he broadcasts from the heart of the storm and pointing out the destruction first hand as he broadcasts from the heart of the storm with bits of flying debris rocketing past like exploded shrapnel. Hell, even if he isn’t broadcasting for our benefit I’d still expect to find him out there in his rain slicker furiously spanking his monkey in the driving wind and rain. Some people like to get their kicks by rock climbing, bungee jumping or skydiving; Anderson likes to stand in Category Five tropical storms with a puffy microphone.

I mean, we’re all pretty sick of hearing about high 192 km/ph winds, rising flood levels, and updated-to-the-minute radar tracking; as far as I can tell, the whole State of Florida is one complete disaster area of Aegean stable proportions anyways. After last years Hurricane Ivan, not to mention Charley, or Frances, or Jeanne, or whatever any of the other fucking gusts of wind that happened to blow inland was named; what do I care if it gets hit again?

As I understand it, the State of Florida and the other bordering states that run along the Gulf of Mexico coastline can expect to be hit by 5-6 hurricanes EVERY year. It’s a fucking regular occurrence! Maybe I’m just fucked here for thinking this, but why do we still seem so shocked and surprised with each new potential Hurricane crisis? Clearly, the DNA cocktail of these people living here are more than a little, shall we say, diluted.

If I were a Florida resident living in the global stomping grounds of tropical storms, I would have rolled out my trailer home and hauled ass to the other side of the country instead of just waiting to the have the next hurricane simply stop by and knock on the front door - before shredding it to pieces, yet AGAIN!

As far as I’m concerned, anybody stupid enough to taunt Mother Nature by returning to a single story flimsy beach house year after year in the middle of hurricane season deserves having the odd billboard sign being relocated into their living room via the front window. They must be some kind of extreme thrill-seekers to be continually willing to put their personal safety, as well as all their worldly possessions, in the direct path of a powerful hurricane.

I can’t really sympathize with the demise of thrill-seekers since it’s basically their own god damned fault since they purposely put themselves in harms way in the first place! Sure, it’s still a tragedy as it would be if any bungee jumper plummeted to their death and bounces off a dry river bed, but am I shocked or sympathetic? OF COURSE FUCKING NOT! The idiot leaped off a bridge with an elastic band attached to his ankle!

I’d say the risk was properly identified well before hand! So how does choosing to live in a high-risk hurricane region fare any fucking different?

MOVE – you masochistic dip shits!

You’re interrupting my regularly scheduled programs for this bullshit - there ARE bombs going off around the world in train stations you know.

War of the Worlds

I just finished seeing the new ‘War of the Worlds’ movie tonight and I only have two words to say:

KICK-fucking-ASS!

Okay, that’s actually three words; but I digress.

“No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinized and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinize the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. With infinite complacency men went to and fro over this globe about their little affairs, serene in their assurance of their empire over matter. It is possible that the infusoria under the microscope do the same. No one gave a thought to the older worlds of space as sources of human danger, or thought of them only to dismiss the idea of life upon them as impossible or improbasble.”

Fucking right - commence ass kicking!

Seeing as how this H.G. Wells science fiction classic remains as one of my ‘Desert Island’ picks as far as literature is concerned, I was distraught at the thought of it being remade by a souless big budget studio. This initially sounded like a perfect recipe for disaster. So, I was prepared to face one extreme vacuous suck hole of a movie. The fact that Tom Snooze was cast to play the lead role did nothing to help me warm up to fact that one of my favorite childhood stories, one that has up until now managed to escape the recent dragnet of cinematic crappola, was about to be rewritten and remade for the Hollywood big screen.

In fact, I even came prepared with a pencil and notepad with the intent of noting the creative and unique ways that I could introduce Tom Cruise to certain death once the credits began to role. Among those included on that list:

• throw body in a wood chipper
• choke with piano wire
• sodomized by mad hippos
• eaten alive by piranahas

However, the pencil and notepad were soon forgotten when the movie became so good that I didn’t even give two shits anymore that “Mr. Scientology” was in the movie at all! Honestly, it could have been Carrot Top running around in a tutu in the lead role of Ray Ferrier and I still wouldn’t have left my seat for a single fucking second!

Normally, I’m one of those never-satisfied couch jockey types when it comes to new modern movie remakes. Someone who shits on just about everything ever released or rereleased just mere milliseconds into the first promotional trailer to ever be released to television. So, it was with a heavy heart that I entered the cinema all on my lonesome with my extortionately priced popcorn and soft drink combo.

But was I ever wrong!

It didn’t matter so much to me that the stories plotline was rewritten to take place in the United States as opposed to its original backdrop of London. And considering the recent events to transpire in London itself, this proved to be a very enlightened forethought indeed - although seeing Buckingham Palace or Westminster Abbey being reduced to piles of rubble would have been super-fucking-cool!

Thank god there was no shortage of what made H.G. Wells timeless story so special in the first place – enormous mechanical aliens kicking human ass! Oh yeah, and DEATH RAYS GALORE! Personally, I just don't feel that its a successful science fiction film unless there is at least one death ray or deadly laser beam incorporated into the plot - minimally, one helpless schmuck has to get meaninglessly zapped to a crispy tater in order to win my approval. Beyond that, I’m all about the massive destruction and chaotic mayhem when it comes to these types of blockbusters. The only thing missing from this edge of the seat action thriller was ‘ol Tommy Boy riding Will Smith bareback from behind like a rodeo cowboy while shouting: “How do you my Independance Day now, Fresh Prince?”

And to those I overheard leaving the theater saying that Steven Spielberg really blew the movie's ending: "PICK UP A FUCKING BOOK ONCE IN YOUR LIVES, DIPSHITS!"

The only truely disturbing this about the evening was upon leaving the theater and having some small girl wearing a pair of those hidden rollerskate shoes glide by in front of me like there was a million tiny insects under her feet carrying her across the floor. In my post-cinema state of shock and awe, I almost freaked out at having first interpreted her as some mutant moon walking alien-Michael Jackson hybrid and clubbed her to death with my leftover bag of stale popcorn.

You may continue living for now, Tom Cruise. Just don't be stupid and try to push your luck by trying to star in 'Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea' or something!

Hot Under the Waistband

(Edited to add that the mighty HR powers-that-be, as of today, have granted me a leniency to wear my sarong on the recognized casual business days. Onward and Upward!)

The full weight of corporate ridiculousness fell today at the office place with the total impact of a huge meteorite breaking through our atmosphere and colliding with the earth. In the middle of a summer heat wave, the schmucks in Human Resources have decided in all their infinite wisdom to disallow men from wearing neatly tailored walking or dress shorts on the regular “business casual” week days.

WTF?

C’mon! I can understand that they don’t want to have an entire office of Shaquille O’Neal’s in over-sized sparkly lamee shorts big enough to hide an entire tribe of nomadic peoples – but have a fucking heart! These are t-a-i-l-o-r-e-d shorts!

I'd just wear one of my many colorful sarongs instead in order to comply with this stupid dress code requirement, but apparently the fact that 3/4 of the males on the planet wear them (mostly those living in HOT climates - imagine that) to keep their core body temperatures from boiling over in extreme humid climates, continues to escape them. Instead, these same HR moolyaks deem sarongs to not be "gender appropriate". Hasn't any of these morons ever ventured outside the office walls?

Considering that we’re in the middle of the summer's most brutal muggy weather, this news went over with all the enthusiasm of a wet fart. What medieval taskmaster decided on that dress code policy exactly? Why not just place us all in leg irons and march us off into an active volcano for fuck sakes? You'd think they'd throw us a bone every now and again and let pairs of innocent dress shorts slip through the radar to be, you know, decent. But, OHHHHH NO!

What possible reasoning could they have had to prevent us men from keeping our haloed lower extremities cool and comfortable? I thought that it would be in the Human Resources best interests to make sure that we’re all happy and comfortable in our labors in order to prevent sudden outbreaks of violent protesting and rioting within Cubicle City. I know nothing makes me more instantly uncomfortable and irritable, not to mention likely to storm the managers office with a torch and pitchfork, than having my Charlie Brown's feeling like two baby potatoes boiling away in a cotton/polyester crock pot - and believe me, with the high temperatures that we’ve been experiencing lately, it’s a variable ‘Mississipeepee Burning’ going on south of my waistband!

Dig?

How come the ladies can wear nice loose skirts and dresses in the hot weather and yet us fella’s are condemned to steep our cajones in our own devil’s cauldron of stewing crotch sweat? Why not just make us wear a suit of armor for Christ sakes?! How exactly is this in keeping with "equality in the workplace"?

The real stupid thing to me is that the weekends, including Mondays and Fridays, are dress down days anyways in which shorts are perfectly acceptable attire. So really, pants are only a necessary requirement to be worn Tuesday through Thursday. What the fuck kind of sense does that make? Is it supposed to be miraculously cooler on these three days of the week or something – or is this just another cruel punishment bestowed on the males in the office just to amuse my evil managers?

I wonder if they have a special ‘Cruel & Unusual Punishments’ department who has regular weekly meetings where they lounge around in their bathing suits in an air conditioned office and sipping on margarita’s to plan out these idiotic tortures for us lowly overheated wage donkey’s?

“Today, we’ll make them all wear really itchy sweaters and hook electrodes up to their testicles – they’ll love it!”

Lactose Sissybitches!

Now I’ll admit that I’m no Norman Bethune here, but I don’t understand what the big fucking deal is about being “Lactose Intolerant”.

Whoopee shit!

Honestly, I’d hate to be lactose intolerant and ever have to acknowledge this fact in public. That must make you feel very vulnerable to your friends and colleagues when it’s exposed that your delicate sissy-ass insides can’t even digest something as simple and ordinary as a glass of fucking milk. How big a pussy are you?

Of all the worldly dangers and things to be weary of in this lifetime, I think I would feel as fragile as a tomato in a hardware store if I was ever diagnosed with lactose intolerance. Christ, what kind of fucking doily of a human being could ever be brought down by an innocent ice cream cone? That’s no way to meet your maker!

Imagine that obituary in the newspaper the next morning: “Healthy, strong, vibrant male, 33-years-old, brought down tragically in his prime by a chunk of extra old Crackle Barrel cheese.”

Embarrassing.

Why are these people so intolerant of lactose anyways? Isn’t “intolerance” just another word for “prejudice”? Maybe the question isn’t really why lactose hates these people; but why these people hate lactose.

What the fuck has milk ever done to these people exactly? It has calcium, phosphorus, vitamin D, essential amino acids, as well as looking hot when splashed over naked super models in those billboard adverts – even Santa Claus loves his 'Moo Juice' for fuck sakes! What’s so wrong and evil about dairy products that an entire class of people should go so far as deeming themselves “intolerant” of it all of a sudden? Are these people like the Ku Klux Klan of the supermarket or something?

What if we all were to go and decide that we were suddenly intolerant of something particularly ordinary and unassuming, like broccoli or rutabagas or something, just because it made us feel all nauseous and gassy afterwards? Shit, I feel like that after watching a single episode of ‘Will & Grace’ but I’m hardly about to begin labeling myself as “télévision de fromage intolerant”. Nor is “broccoli intolerant” going to improve my street cred by any great leaps or bounds.

Where did all this hatred directed at certain foodstuffs come from anyways? Fat, chloresterol, calories, MSG, sodium, sugar, I can understand all those - those fuckers will kill ya! But lactose? I’d rather find out that I had an immunity weakness to something a little more substantial and menacing – something a little more recognizably deadly perhaps, like axe murderers, Agent Orange, or falling grand pianos. Something that really strikes fear into peoples hearts!

Who are you going to more sympathize with – some “Lactose Intolerant” sissy bitch…or, someone who’s, say, “Drano Intolerant”? Something that at least sounds a little more immediately life threatening anyways.

So, all you “Lactose Intolerant” hypochondriac whiners out there should just put down your boxes of rice milk and sardine shakes and grab onto the nearest cow teat because none of us real lactose tolerant-types give a shit anymore! It’s not our fault your puny ill-equipped immune systems don’t allow you to enjoy an innocent cup of Yoplait without the risking of choking to death afterwards on your own toxic Chernobyl farts.

“Got Milk?” you intolerant, smelly sissybitches.

"For God so loved the world, he gave his favorite dildo..."

A few evenings ago, I happened to tune into CNN just in time to catch a story about a Christian organization which has been focusing it’s sales and distribution of adult sex toys and novelty aids to Christian woman throughout the much of the mid-west states; with much success I might add. Unfortunately, I was too busy holding my gut through the gales of laughter at the time to make many useful notes, but the story still sparked an interest within my perverted curiosity.

So much so, that in order to research this whole sex toy party phenomenon, or “Fantasia” or “Passion” parties as they’re more commonly known in the more sexually promiscuous world, I borrowed one such ‘Bedroom Magic’ home catalogue from a fellow colleague at work. Of course, this rather compromising sexy catalogue (hardly something to be ever deemed “office appropriate”) was smuggled out of the building covertly in a true manly fashion, namely inside the pages of a MOJO magazine featuring Marvin Gaye on the cover - little did anybody know what tempting uber-kinky incantations lay within.

What can I say? I had an itch that had to be scratched, and if locating the perfect scented blend of eatable body lube would help me scratch that itch, so much the better!

Before I could really comprehend what this revolutionary adult orientated company was attempting to market throughout the sexually repressed ‘Bible Belt’ area of the states, I had to first familiarize myself with the product and the whole sex toy party craze that I’ve otherwise been missing out on* until now.

It wasn’t long ago that I remember a Baptist, mother of three, and former schoolteacher in Burleson, TX being arrested by two undercover police officers for selling sexual toys and charged with violating Texas obscenity laws as a smut peddler. She now faces up to $4,000 in fines if convicted for something originally advertised as a “Girls Night out of Giggles and Fun”. “Giggles and Fun”? Holy shit, did we ever dodge a deadly bullet there! Heavens forbid that a bunch of horny housewives should ever get together over tea and bunt cake to get all moist while ordering and purchasing stuff like 'White Chocolate Body Powder' and 'Nipple Nectar', or getting sized for a new set of vibrating anal beads.

Two undercover police officers posed as a couple trying to spice up their love life and the woman sold the female officer a vibrator, and then instructed her on its use and explained how it could enhance lovemaking. What a travesty! Is this something that was really so deviant that it warranted an entire sting operation? Christ O’Mighty! What did they charge her with, “detailing in safe love-making tips involving a rubberized dong”? That terrorist bitch!

Texas law allows for the sale of sexual toys as long as they are billed as novelties, but when a person markets sex toys in a direct manner that shows their actual role in sex, then that person is subject to obscenity charges.

How the fuck does that make any sense? The actual selling of a monstrous pink latex dildo is fine, but explain how to use that same dildo during lovemaking and you’re suddenly a criminal? What the fuck else are you going to use a huge dildo for – doesn’t that kind of go without saying? You fuck yourself with it! Duh. Shit, even Dr. Ruth’s dead grandmother could’ve told you that!

So how does this particular sex toy company get away with marketing their similarly controversial porno contraband in the states that would more likely have them burned at the stake as a witches than ever place orders for the new super flexible jelly ‘Clitorific’ vibrator? I mean, these good god-fearing Christian lades hardly seemed like the types to do the household chores, attend a bible study class and then reward herself afterwards by fucking herself stupid with something called the “Thriller”, that requires an entire portable generator to power up while the apple pie is cooling on the window sill. And I’m not talking about Michael Jackson and legions of dancing zombies here either!

They bring God himself into the equation – that’s how.

“And the firstborn said unto the younger, Our father is old, and there is not a man in the earth to come in unto us after the manner of all the earth:Come, let us make our father drink wine, and we will lie with him, that we may preserve the seed of our father.” (Genesis; 19:31-32)

Hey, that’s some pretty kinky shit!

It’s not a “Sex Toy Party” anymore. Instead it’s a “Spirit Party” among likeminded Christian housewives. I guess God has apparently told them to go out and have many orgasms. And who ever says ‘no’ to God?

I remember seeing in this CNN report the merchant hostess talking about inviting the Holy Spirit into her vagina and blessing her with a beautiful life-enriching experience and therefore bringing her closer to God; all the while waving around a rubberized cock that you could club seals with.

It didn’t seem too particularly sexy or pious to me.

So begins my curiosity with adult sex toys and other “spirit enhancing” novelty items. Hey, if God himself endorses it – how bad could it be? I’ve already had one disastrous foray into the world of adult porn however, but this time I can secretly indulge from the privacy of my own apartment behind drawn shades.

So after donning a pair of sterile latex gloves and placing an iron apron over my crotch (hey, you can never be too careful!) I began to leaf through this adult novelty catalogue. Needless to say, it did nothing to improve my male sexual insecurities. More so, I was shocked at the extreme-looking toys that were available for sale within the pages of the catalogue– nevermind that it was supposedly the Christian wives and mothers that were buying them by the 'Love Basket' full!

I mean, why would some juiced up randy chick ever want my beef stick when she can employ the ‘Bird of Paradise’ for intense triple stimulation on all her pleasure spots at once? Man, that makes my own penis seem like a limp celery by comparison! After all, I have no such flashing lights, anal ticklers, vibrating pulses, multi speeds, or feature settings to play with. Nope, just a plain ‘ol flesh colored penis. How boring is that to perverted horned-up women in comparison – Christian or otherwise?

Likewise, some of these toys look like a cross between a high-tech James Bond gadget and the drive shaft from a Sherman tank. I think I’d be too intimidated to ever purchase and use any of these sex aids if I were a woman. I guess that’s why there are other special lotions and balms that provide a numbing effect of one’s bodily parts for sale as well. However, I would think that if it were to become too uncomfortable there’s a fucking reason and I would want to know about it immediately! That’s not a feeling that I would want to suppress for the sake of having sex. I’d hate to have my lungs punctured by some gargantuan ‘Silver Bullet’ that I’ve been wedging up myself because I was so numbed out from the medicated ‘Anal Eaze’ that I applied earlier. I would want to know when enough is enough so that my X-ray doesn’t end up posted as a joke to some poor taste train wreck website!

Call me crazy!

So after becoming a little disturbed, I decided to move on through the catalogue to the bedroom lingerie section. Surely, here was a section that even I could get a rise out of (literally). Now where I will admit that the image of a pretty woman in slinky, sexy, negligee is a work of beauty, I’m not so sure I would ever insist on buying one for my partner to wear. When push comes to shove in the bedroom, I’m just a simple guy – I want her naked, spread-eagled and willing. Well, I would settle for naked and spread-eagled…but beggars can’t be choosers. I’m afraid that anything too sexy and slinky will over excite me enough that I would be drawn to ripping it off with my teeth and thereby not exactly impressing the unfortunate person with whom I was trying to score with. Capeesh?

That’s just an incident waiting to happen!

Whatever. I'm cool with the whole selling of sex toys thing since I also happen to be an advocate for the safe practise and use of any and all heavy machinery; but it does leave me with one question that has me still buring at the stake of passion that I'd like an answer for from the Christian women, and that's: If God really intended you to have all these orgams, how come he didn't equip us men with the proper equipment to get the fucking job done in the first place? Where's the justice in that?

I know God works in mysterious ways - but that's fucked up!

Furthermore, if we were created in his likeness; that's not saying much about his divine tackle, is it? Why are you ladies even crying out his name while we're making the beast with two backs with you? If God had done things properly in the first place, we wouldn't have to spend our evenings before bed watching Jeopardy overtop the industrial buzzing coming from the bedroom while you bang the lawnmower! Of course, we guys wouldn't care much anyways since we'd probably be similarly wacking off in our Eazy Boys with a set of vibrating 'Lori's Lips'.

So with everybody out gratifying themselves and fullfilling God's will, who's actually having all this intercourse anyways? Everybody is fucking household appliances!

Shit, I say lets forget all the kinky marital aids and try getting back to unsatisfied basics. Let's get back to the old traditional methods employed back in the more conservative Old World, and learn to once again make beautiful music together! You don't have to spend an entire paycheck on a supped up latex kitchen blender in order to have fun in the bedroom! For example, I'm just going to invest in an old pair of brass cymbals and simply invite my loved one to play along to Beethoven's 5th Symphony with me in the bathroom while I take a dump and play the cresendo with my own farts. Later, after we've done the deed, she can comfort me while I cry into a bag of Malomars.

It may not be "beautiful"; but it's honest and every bit as spiritual - and I won't have to worry about developing a jealous resentment for an inanimate object.

And so tomarrow, I'm smuggling this catalogue back to it's rightful owner inside another manly MOJO magazine - this one with Pink Floyd on the cover.

* Not so suggest that this is something that I would like to participate in so much, as in just being a fly on the wall. Anything where gaggles of giggling tipsy women bitch about how unsatisfying their husbands are over glasses of merlot is clearly not my scene.

Knock, Knock, Knocking on the Dept. of Musical Ethics Door

New Rule: Before any band or recording artist should ever attempt to record their own cover version of any previously written and recorded song from any other classic rock band in history, then they should first make an appeal to a newly established ‘Department of Musical Ethics’ for which, of course, I will be Chairman of the Board.

I promise to wield my powers of good taste justly with brutal honesty and ironclad integrity. Such examples of my previous cover song seals of approval include:

Hurt – Johnny Cash (Nine Inch Nails)
Telegram Sam – Bauhaus (T. Rex)
Hey Joe – Jimi Hendrix (the jury is still out, but the smart money is on Billy Roberts)
Traveling Riverside Blues – Led Zeppelin (Robert Johnson)
Pancho & Lefty – Willie Nelson (Townz Van Zant)
Pocahontas - Crash Vegas (Neil Young)
Sweet Jane – Cowboy Junkies (Velvet Underground)
Samson & Delilah – Grateful Dead (Rev. Gary Davis)
Landslide – Smashing Pumpkins (Stevie Nicks)
Sweet Child o’ Mine – Luna (Guns & Roses)
Get Ready – Rare Earth (Temptations)
Backdoor Man – Doors (Howlin’ Wolf)

There are a few more (not many, but a few) that I may relent to acknowledging after a few stiff drinks and bucket bongs, but these are the core dozen that I strongly support as worthy of being covered.

All others are about as palatable as three-month-old expired cream cheese - without the lumps.

Likewise, I’m all about maintaining the integrity of rock and fucking roll. I couldn’t give a shit about the lesser musical genre’s such as rap, techno, death metal, modern pop, boy bands, new country, or anything to ever become freakishly popular in Germany*. Furthermore, everything I know about classical music I learned in Loony Tunes.

Nothing is worse than having an associated memory that has been affixed to a particular fond melody, and then having that same memory trounced to itty bitty little pieces by some screeching doofus who sounds like a wounded orangutan, and who is also completely void of the common sense to respect the compassionate decency regarding recording cover songs in music. The same song that I remember rounding second base with Eva Roditis to back in high school under the bleachers has now been rerecorded in order to sell Rigatoni by the can (Prodigy – Firestarter) in television commercials. The Smiths ‘How Soon Is now’ was rerecorded and hacked to bits in order to hock light ice beer – LIGHT fucking ice beer? Wait…given Morrissey’s penchant for hairdressers on fire and frosty wit, perhaps this remade cover was well suited.

Here are some examples of songs for which I would have the collective band members rounded up and impaled on spikes for making a mockery out of songs that I hold dear:

Landslide – the Dixie Chicks (Stevie Nicks)
Time After Time – Phil Collins (Cynder Lauper)**
Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds – William Shatner (Beatles)
American Pie – Madonna (Don MacClean)**
Just a Gigolo – David Lee Roth (Louis Armstrong)
Live and Let Die – Guns & Rose (Paul McCartney & Wings)
Personal Jesus - Marilyn Manson (Depeche Mode)

Brown-Eyed Girl – ANYBODY! (Van-fucking-Morrison)

Any of these cover songs could cause instant brain damage and leave your mind as blank as Teri Schiavo’s hospital menu card. These particular songs were travesties not only to the good name of rock and roll, but to the very essence of cultured taste in general. It’s like comparing a raspberry torte to dried dog shit.

Of course, I could rhyme off endlessly zillions of cover song offenders, but I would inevitably become so enraged that I may give way to going all Al Capone “teamwork” and bash in my stereo with a Louisville Slugger.

The general rule I would recommend bands follow in order to gain a better chance of yielding favor from the ‘Department of Musical Ethics’ would be to make the original song you’ve chosen your own, don’t try to replicate the same style in which it was already recorded because inevitably your version will suck donkey balls in comparison. And don’t choose those untouchable songs that everybody hails as being “classic”; you could play a haunting rendition of Pink Floyd’s ‘Interstellar Overdrive’ on a penny whistle through your asshole and you would still get lynched the moment you tried to leave the building.

But beware superstar-wannabe's, violations will not be tolerated and will be dealt with swiftly and without mercy. Found violator's and pepetrators of bad taste will be subject to a ritual beating at the hands of your peers whom you outright disrespected. This punishment should have been in effect al along!

Imagine seeing Harry Chapin stomping the living bejesus out of the collective band members of Ugly Kid Joe for similarly taking a huge dump on his classic ballad 'Cats In the Cradle'. It would have been poetry in motion...

* Being the contemporary breeding ground of evil in the first place, this logic is simply playing the law of averages.

** Neither of these songs I really liked in their original form either, but the fact that they were still covered again makes them twice as shitty, therefore elevating their total suck-value to shitty².

Pass the Ostrich Steak!

Okay, the gloves are off.

This past Tuesday, the legendary Boomtown Rat Sir Bob Geldof and desperate Bono-wannabe gave Canadian prime minister Paul Martin a public tongue lashing by telling him not to bother attending the meeting of the wealthy G8 nations in Gleneagles, Scotland next month if he isn’t prepared to increase aid to Africa.

So, being the proud patriotic Canadian I am, I feel the pressing need to speak out for my prime minister’s defense and address Sir Bob directly. On behalf of Canadians everywhere:

“Eh, Fuck off you hoser! The Boomtown Rats sucked at the best of times and your hair looks like it hasn’t been combed in 20 years, eh.”

Geldof scolded Martin from a Rome press conference by stating: “If he’s not prepared, stay at home, just stay at home, don’t come.” Perfect! Who wants to go to your shitty-ass meeting on some rainy golf course to talk about hungry Africans over boiled sheep’s intestines with some stiffs in skirts anyways?

It seems to me that Geldof has dropped any subtlety from his act, and is now appearing as heavy-handed and self-righteous as the tin-pot dictators against whom he's fighting.

Leading into the coordinated Live 8 concerts hosted in London, Paris, Berlin, Moscow, Philadelphia, Rome, Tokyo, Johannesburg, and Barrie (an hour outside Toronto for you non-Canadians), Geldof is “turning up the heat” on world leaders to commit to his pre-determined goal of 0.7 per cent of the country’s gross national product by 2015. Martin has responded that “(We are) not going to make a commitment that (we) are not sure the government will be able to keep.”

Fuckin-A! Those ARE my taxpayer’s dollars that Sir Bob is so eagerly trying to earmark for his World Hunger hard-on. Pardon me “Mr. I Don’t Like Mondays”, but I don’t like chancing my country slipping back into a deficit, thank you very-fucking-much! Of course, I support the cause of eradicating hunger in Africa and I will continue dropping my spare change into those collection jars on check-out countertops everywhere, but $15 billion per year every year until 2015 - roughly five times the current level? Are you fucking serious?

Hey Bob, let me ask; how much are YOU donating there, Daddy Warbucks? Sure, you raised $40 million for famine relief back in 1985 with the Live Aid shows, but what have you done for us lately?

It seemed like only yesterday that they were marching in the streets and waving placards with “No to drug addicts and rock homos” in front of the British High Commission in Kampala to protest against ‘ol Sir Bob for speaking out against the Ugandan president Yoweri Museveni.

*sigh*

Oh wait, it was!

I’d prefer to see that kind of financial commitment and political dedication to go to other pressing issues here at home instead like the funding of public hospitals and schools, or hey, how about sheltering our own growing numbers of homeless or feeding the ever increasing hungry people on our own city streets? Crazy notion, isn’t it? I know.

Besides, it seems to me that of all the important issues taking place given the current political climate of Africa; hunger just doesn’t seem that friggin’ bad. There’s the widespread AIDS epidemic in South Africa, ruthless Hutu death squads exterminating Tutsi populations in Rwanda, nineteen years of conflict between government and brutal resistance armies in Uganda, 4,600 Angolan misplaced refugees in the Democratic Republic of Congo, and a 28-month-old civil war in the Sudan resulting in the loss of 300,000 lives, 2.4 million civilians being displaced from their homes, and 20,000 fleeing the slaughter into neighboring Chad. And Bob Geldof thinks that by throwing a few million Mars bars into the African continent, that he’s somehow going to miraculously change it for the better?

Get fucked.

If given the choice between going hungry or having my arms hacked off by machetes in some backwoods scuffle between rival rebel groups…I’ll pass on the second helpings, thanks.

Besides, how hungry can the people of Africa really be? I mean, after watching more than just a few animal documentaries about the African safaris on the Wildlife Channel, I’m under the impression that Africa is just one huge enormous buffet table! There’s succulent animals and juicy game roaming everywhere! How can anybody ever go hungry? Shit, down just one sick African elephant and you could probably feed the entire population of Burundi for weeks!

By all rights, the African people should already be enjoying the mother of all fucking barbeques! It should be giraffe burgers and hippo salad for everybody!

Wait, why are we sending money again? Oh yeah, that jackass Bob Geldof…

Geldof further railed that “the world is broken and it’s a political fracture. Live 8 will be the splint, hopefully, that joins it. In order to make that work, the Canadian prime minister must come to terms with a completely open mind.”

If I were Paul Martin, I’d show Geldof my “open mind” by pulling his shirt over his head and repeatedly clubbing him with the business end of my Bauer hockey stick until he barfs up his zebra pate.

For the time being, we can just ship over all the leftovers in Luther Vandros' refridgerator to munch on as aperitifs until a mutual, more realistic agreement can be reached for a reasonable charitable donation.

Other than that, go suck bacon you Boomtown queerbait!